Chapter Four

Claire

The brasserie was quiet that morning, so while she waited for the last trays of croissants to puff up and turn golden in the oven, the whorls of their laminated layers as intricate as fingerprints, Claire jotted down all of her contacts in the restaurant world. Most of these were fellow classmates from the Cordon Bleu or chefs she’d worked with at different restaurants, but one name stood out—Monsieur Thibault. He had opened two restaurants now, and each of them had been awarded the coveted three-star rating in the Michelin Guide. Unfortunately she’d been fired from Monsieur Thibault’s kitchen at the Meurice for insubordination, so he would be unlikely to hire her again.

Reluctantly she crossed him off her list and then arranged the names in order of preference. Claire didn’t get a day off until the following week, but she’d begin working through her list, trying to schedule interviews for that day.

With a jolt, she remembered she still hadn’t canceled the appointment at Dior.

After the morning’s baking was done, Claire slipped up to the apartment. She’d telephone La Maison Dior and tell them she wasn’t coming, ask them to put the gown away for when Madame returned.

Upstairs, she found Gina pacing, her arms crossed and her fingertips digging into the flesh of her upper arms. Gina’s blue eyes seethed with emotion, but the rest of her face remained expressionless. She had always carried herself like a dancer, her posture almost too correct. That hadn’t changed, but her body seemed more rigid than usual.

“What is it?” asked Claire. “What’s wrong?”

Gina blew out a breath. “My father came to see me this morning.”

“I’m sorry to have missed him.” Claire had met Jay Winter a few times. She knew the type: charming but with an underlying ruthlessness she wasn’t sure Gina had ever fully recognized. “Did he come to take you back home?”

Gina shook her head. “No. No, he didn’t try to do that, at least.”

“Then what?” asked Claire gently.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really.” Gina drew a deep breath and seemed to gain control over her emotions. With folded arms, she faced Claire. “It’s Hal. My father wants me to cultivate him. He needs Hal to invest in his business.”

Claire gaped at her. How could Jay ask something like that? She didn’t yet know the details, but she could tell the end of their engagement had hit Gina hard. “Must you be involved? Why doesn’t your father ask him directly? Surely—” Claire broke off at the look on her friend’s face, which had shuttered once more. It seemed terribly selfish and insensitive of Jay to expect this of his daughter, but perhaps there was some deeper reason for his involving her. One that Claire didn’t know about. Maybe he hoped to bring the two of them back together?

Gina gave a quick shake of her head, as if to dismiss Claire’s unspoken objections. “I need to be prepared when I see him. I need to be armored with perfect makeup and fabulous hair and a glorious gown.” Her determined smile went awry. “I sound pathetic, don’t I?”

Claire searched her friend’s face. An angry and disappointed admirer had once likened Gina to a marble statue, her heart as hard and unresponsive as her perfectly carved features. Gina was the strongest woman Claire had ever known. Now, she sensed the vulnerability beneath Gina’s flawless exterior. She wished she could say something to make it all better, but she couldn’t.

She ventured on the obvious solution. “Maybe you should just tell your father no.”

Gina seemed to freeze. Then she said, “I can’t. I know that I should, and I know he is taking advantage of me, but I just can’t, Claire.” She swallowed. “And I hate to admit it, but . . .” She drew a deep breath. “I want to see him again.”

The pain and hope in Gina’s eyes caught at Claire’s heartstrings.

Gina gave a wry smile. “The only catch is, I don’t have a stitch to wear.” Claire’s face must have registered shock, because Gina spread her hands. “We’re broke, you see. The creditors took everything we owned that was worth a dime.”

Claire knew Gina was short of money, but she’d assumed that was because she’d left New York without her family’s blessing. She hadn’t explained that part. “Mon Dieu! But why didn’t you tell me?”

So Gina related the whole story—her father losing all the family money, Hal’s father giving her an ultimatum. The excruciating task of breaking Hal’s heart.

Claire had never been able to comprehend the extent of Gina’s family wealth. It was impossible to imagine a debt so great that it would swallow up every house, automobile, and boat, every stick of furniture they owned.

What must it have been like to go from luxury to penury in an instant? The debt collectors had even taken the most valuable of Gina’s clothes.

Inspiration struck. “But of course! The Dior gown! You should have said something. Why didn’t you?”

Gina’s shoulders slumped. “I couldn’t ask that of you. I’d feel like a complete heel.”

“But no! Why should you?” demanded Claire. “I was about to telephone Dior to say I didn’t want the gown. But for you, dear Gina, I will be pleased to accept. And you can go to the fitting, all right? And I will come with you.”

Gina started to argue, but Claire held up her hand. “Chut! I don’t want to hear it. How many times did I borrow your frocks, back then?” Those frivolous days filled with parties and fun seemed like a long-lost dream, but she would never have enjoyed such a life without Margot and Gina towing her along and foisting their clothes upon her so she didn’t feel out of place.

“Oh, I’m so happy to do this!” she said gleefully. Accepting Madame Vaughn’s generosity for herself had seemed too . . . Well, it just wasn’t right. But for Gina, she most certainly could.

Gina eyed her in wonder. “You were really going to turn down a Dior gown? After all those years of yearning?”

Claire shrugged. “Where would I wear it, anyway? In the kitchen at Le Chat?”

It was true that Claire never went anywhere fun these days. Gina would have to see what she might do to change that. Slowly she shook her head. “I will never cease to wonder at your generosity and goodness, my dear.” She gripped Claire’s hands tightly in hers. “Thank you, my dearest friend. I will try my very best to repay you.”

“No thanks necessary. I shall love seeing you in all your finery.” Claire smiled, but suddenly she felt as if sobs burned in her throat. She couldn’t for the life of her work out why.

Gina

On the morning after Jay’s visit, Gina rose early. The bookstore didn’t open for another two hours. A perfect amount of time to spend writing. Hopefully working on her manuscript would take her mind off her father’s upsetting visit.

Spurred on less by Claire’s nagging than by Claire’s example—sometimes Claire would get up before dawn to practice her skills in the brasserie kitchen below—Gina had not missed a day of writing since her second morning in Paris.

Madame Vaughn’s desk was so elegant, it was a pleasure to use. Her typewriter was top-of-the-range, too, as one might have expected—very different from Gina’s battered old Corona. At first, Gina had only used the typewriter for her freelance articles, but later she’d taken to correcting the handwritten pages of her novel and then typing up the corrected version. The view from the window facing her might have proven distracting to another writer. But whenever Gina worked, she was so focused, she could be anywhere. Her surroundings didn’t matter at all.

She picked up the pages she’d written the day before and immediately saw a word she wanted to change. Eyes still on the page, she groped for her pen, but the cool, sleek gold casing did not meet her questing fingers. Impatiently she looked around the desk. Her mother’s pen wasn’t there.

Anxiety clutching her chest, she checked under papers, shaking them a little in case the pen had been caught among them. The desk drawers yielded no result. Gina got down on her hands and knees to search the floor surrounding the desk. Nothing. Could it be somewhere else? But she hadn’t worked anywhere in the apartment other than at the desk.

She made the search anyway, but after she’d looked under the sofa and coffee table and behind the curtains on either side of the desk, she’d exhausted the likely places. Nonetheless she went through the entire apartment, dumping out the contents of her purse and sifting through them, peering under each of the twin beds in her room, rummaging through her dresser drawers. She even glanced in at Claire’s room in case she’d borrowed the pen without telling her—unlikely, but by now, Gina was desperate.

Trying to stay calm, she put her hands on her hips, thinking back, retracing her movements. “I had it yesterday.” She’d left it on the desk next to her manuscript pages after her morning’s writing session. She was sure of it. She only ever used that pen for writing novels—a vow she’d made to honor her mother’s memory.

The image of her father reading her work popped up in her mind’s eye. Maybe Jay had jotted something down with her pen and absently put it in his pocket. Yes, something like that must have happened. She prayed that it had. She could not bear to lose her one tangible reminder of Rose.

Would Jay have arrived back at his hotel yet? Gina telephoned the Meurice and asked to leave a message for her father. He called back almost immediately.

“You haven’t reconsidered about the ball, have you, darling?” Jay’s voice was strained.

“No, nothing like that,” said Gina. “It’s just that I’ve lost my gold pen. You didn’t happen to see it when you were here, did you?”

“No, I can’t say that I did,” said Jay. “Where did you have it last?”

“I thought I’d left it on the desk in the apartment,” said Gina, frowning in an effort to remember exactly the last time she’d put it down. “I’m sure I . . .” She trailed off.

“Well, I do hope you find it, darling,” said Jay. “Sorry. I have to go. Was that all?”

“Yes,” said Gina, staring at the desk. “That’s all.”

Claire

Claire had tried every contact she knew in Paris, but few were hiring at the moment. Throughout all of those early mornings and late nights working on her skills, she had never once considered that upon being set free from the brasserie, she would find it difficult to get a job.

“You are being too picky,” said Vo-Vo when she heard about Claire’s struggles. “You’ve been out of the game for two years. Did you think they’d let you simply pick up again where you left off?”

“You mean I’ll have to start over?” Claire was horrified at the thought.

Vo-Vo shrugged. “Just get a foot in the door. You’ll prove yourself soon enough.”

But Claire had her pride to consider. She couldn’t possibly accept a position that was too many steps lower on the ladder than her peers’. If certain people ever found out she’d been forced to go back to being an apprentice, for pity’s sake, she’d never live it down.

But when she attended the first round of interviews she’d organized, she discovered that Vo-Vo was right.

Her first port of call was the Auberge du Vert-Galant on the Île de la Cité. She’d managed to beg and plead with a demi-chef she’d worked under at Le Meurice to get her an interview.

When Claire arrived at the Auberge, with its wide terrace and its view of the Palais de Justice, her heart was pounding so hard, she thought she might faint. It was one thing to hold in her heart an ambition to be one of the best chefs in Paris; it was quite another to actually present herself for inspection at one of the city’s premier restaurants, having not worked in the kitchen of a great chef de cuisine for more than two years.

You can do this, she told herself sternly. Don’t be one of those people who are forever talking about what they might have done, their lives full of “if only.” Don’t leave yourself with regrets.

Claire was thoroughly prepared. She’d worked harder than ever, practicing her sauté skills, perfecting her stocks and sauces. She knew she would not be appointed saucier straightaway at a place like the Auberge, but she hoped very much to be made a demi-chef, in charge of one of the smaller stations of the kitchen brigade. She knew that she was likely to meet with arrogance over her interlude at Le Chat. She held ready several arguments against such prejudice. If she had to compromise, she wouldn’t even mind if they took her on as a lowly commise. She’d show them what she could do soon enough and be promoted, just as Vo-Vo had said.

What she did not expect was to be rejected out of hand. From the beginning, she got off on the wrong foot. Her interviewer, pristine in chef’s whites with a red kerchief tied at his throat, was the sous-chef, and not the man she’d expected to see.

“But where is Monsieur Bos?” she asked, naming the chef de cuisine.

“Do you think Chef has the time or inclination to trouble himself with someone of your experience?” demanded her interviewer, outraged.

A bad sign that Chef had not bothered to meet her. Worse that she’d managed to offend this man into the bargain. “Mademoiselle Bedeau,” said the sous-chef with a haughty sniff, “it is clear to me that you do not have the requisite commitment to la cuisine for the Auberge. You have not worked at a decent restaurant in years.”

“Well, you see, family circumstances led me to—”

“I’m sorry,” the sous-chef interrupted with an arrogant wave of his hand. “There is no place for you here.”

And so it went, at interview after interview. Her brasserie experience counted heavily against her—far more heavily than she had guessed. It was so unreasonable! It wasn’t as if she was seeking some exalted position. Or were they just making excuses not to hire her? Many kitchens simply didn’t hire women, it was true.

Would it have been better to have left the brasserie off her résumé entirely? But then she’d have to explain the gap in her work history, and it would mean telling lies. That wasn’t the way she wanted to begin with a new employer.

In desperation, Claire begged to be given a trial period. She offered to work as an apprentice, but even that position was denied her. “Your skills are clearly more suited to a family brasserie,” said the final chef who interviewed her. “Go back to Le Chat, mademoiselle. This is not the place for you.”

Gina

On the morning of their proposed visit to Dior, Gina dressed carefully and applied her makeup with a well-practiced hand. She was competent enough at dolling herself up, but she wished Margot had been there to do the honors. Margot was a genius with makeup and hair.

In Paris, Gina missed Margot more than ever. Everywhere she went, she was reminded of all the good times they’d spent together, of Margot’s funny sayings and irreverent quips. She missed their shared love of literature, too. Claire wasn’t much of a reader, mainly because training to be a chef had never left her much leisure time, but Gina and Margot could talk about their latest literary discoveries for hours. No one else had ever filled that gap.

With grim determination, Gina returned to the matter at hand: the vexed question of what one ought to wear to a fitting at a fashion house. She ended the agony of decision by putting on her best sapphire blue suit and hat, but she couldn’t help making a face at herself in the mirror. It was a Schiaparelli, and the attendants at Dior would see at a glance that it was from two seasons ago, but why let that bother her? This happened to be her favorite outfit, one she’d purchased with her own money, what was more.

Gina slipped down to the brasserie a little before the appointed time and caught the plongeur sweeping the sidewalk, a hand-rolled cigarette stuck to his lower lip. “Bonjour, Louis!” she called.

He returned the greeting and went on with his work. Gina cleared her throat. “Uh, Louis? May I ask you something?”

He grabbed his cap and pulled it from his head, then dashed his hand through his hair a couple of times. He was a handsome lad but very shy. Gina smiled kindly at him but found it impossible to continue.

A kernel of suspicion had grown into a dreadful likelihood. Having searched everywhere, even on the brasserie floor, Gina had not been able to find her gold pen. Then she realized that not only was she missing the pen but also its tooled leather case, which she always kept in the desk drawer in the apartment. That told her she hadn’t simply lost the keepsake somewhere. It had been taken. The word “stolen” was too harsh to contemplate.

Only two people besides Gina had been in that drawing room, and she’d already asked Claire. In any case, Claire was above suspicion. Sadly, if past experience was anything to judge by, Jay Winter was not.

The image of her father bending over her manuscript pages kept coming back to her. Had he been reading her work that morning, as he’d claimed? Ever since their last telephone conversation, he’d proven elusive. She had called and left messages, and even visited his hotel to try to see him, but he was never in. Only once had he returned her call—and that conversation had been so hurried and short that Gina had failed to work up the courage to ask again about her pen.

Sometimes, she convinced herself that she was a traitor even to consider that her father might have taken such a precious keepsake to pawn or sell. Maybe someone had come into the apartment when Gina and Claire weren’t there. Maybe someone else had a key.

At Gina’s hesitation, Louis raised his eyebrows and nodded encouragingly, waiting for her to continue.

“It’s nothing,” Gina said with a quick, pained smile. “Never mind.”

She’d been about to ask Louis if he knew of any pawnbrokers nearby. But she was a horrible, disloyal daughter even to think of such a thing. Jay would never do something like that. Not to her. He’d never sell the one thing she had left of her mother. She’d have to accept the loss.

“Ready?” Interrupting her brooding, Claire strode up and linked her arm in Gina’s. Laughing, Claire lifted her shoulders in excitement. “I can’t wait to see what Monsieur Dior has in store for us, can you? On y va!

Claire

Claire and Gina took a taxi to Dior. Gina insisted on paying for it, and Claire, seeing that she needed to do this out of pride, simply thanked her.

The familiar stone edifice with its black railings and revolving door, and its pearl grey awning with “Christian Dior” lettered in white, made Claire’s heart rush up to her throat. Excitement and nervousness warred inside her, even though she wasn’t the one to be fitted today.

Hardly noticing the window displays this time, Claire followed Gina inside. They were met by an elegant woman, dressed in black, who greeted Gina by name.

While the other women exchanged pleasantries, Claire stared about her. She’d seen photographs of Dior parades in magazines, of course, but she’d never been inside the fashion house before. An air of hushed elegance pervaded; the walls, painted a dove grey with white detail, seemed the epitome of sophistication, a plain but subtly stylish backdrop to the wonderful gowns the house had to offer. A small boutique full of hats and gloves and other exquisite accessories caught her interest; maybe they’d visit after the fitting. She didn’t want to miss a single thing.

“And this is my friend Claire, who made the appointment for me today,” Gina said. Hearing her name, Claire wrenched her attention from their surroundings, smiled, and greeted Madame Vincent.

Madame was most probably baffled by the way Le Patron’s work of art was being passed around like a parcel at a children’s party, but she did not show it by a flicker of an eyelid. She conducted them upstairs, to a spacious room with one mirrored wall, a collection of clothes racks, and various accoutrements ranged along shelves: shoes, hats, and scarves. There was a screen in the corner and a round dais next to it. This must be where the magic would begin.

Madame indicated a pair of pale grey medallion-backed chairs and invited them to be seated. “I’ll arrange for your gown to be brought in.”

With rising anticipation, Claire turned to Gina. “I can’t wait to see it! I wonder what Madame chose?”

“Remember the Venus?” said Gina. “Maybe it’s something along those lines.”

“Oh, that would be magnificent.” Claire made a face. “I’m glad you’re to wear it, in that case. I would feel . . . Oh, I don’t know . . . Unworthy of such a gown.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” said Gina. “You are worthy of the very best—”

She broke off as Monsieur Dior himself entered the room. He was smiling and dapper and gave a softly spoken introduction to the creation they were about to see. “I do not usually like to do things this way, you understand,” he said with only a gentle note of complaint. “But Madame Vaughn was most insistent.”

“Ah!” said Monsieur Dior. “Here we are.”

At last, in came the gown, carried with care by a gloved assistant. Both Gina and Claire stood up as it entered, as one rises for a bride to walk down the aisle.

And this was a gown worthy of respect. It was a magnolia dream of silk organza, opening over a satin skirt embroidered with gold thread, mother-of-pearl, beads, and sequins, with a flourish of chiffon at the shoulder. Even Claire, so often awkward and gangling in dresses, would be sure to feel like a fairy queen in this gown.

“It’s even better than I’d hoped.” Gina was aglow. She turned to Claire. “Isn’t it stunning?” In a lower tone, she added, “How can you bear to let me be the first to wear it?”

“But of course I can,” said Claire when she found her voice. She smiled as brightly as she could, to show she meant it. “Go. Try it on.”

Madame Vincent explained that the gown came as a separate bodice and skirt. “If Mademoiselle permits, I will help you to put it on.”

When Gina emerged from behind the screen and stepped up onto the dais, it was only the hem that needed letting down and the bust letting out the teeniest bit.

“Oh, you look ravishing!” said Claire. “Like Queen Mab or Empress Joséphine.”

Gina turned to Monsieur Dior. “Absolument parfait, monsieur! This gown is a tour de force!”

But the couturier himself only acknowledged her gushing with a shy, almost embarrassed smile. With his slightly beaky nose, he looked like a large bird of some sort as he tilted his head this way and that to scrutinize the fit of the gown. Using a long white stick, Dior pointed here and there, murmuring instructions to the seamstress, who was pinning the material in the places he indicated. He checked that the skirt fell properly, that the bodice and its fastenings were perfect.

“Bon!” he said. “Mademoiselle is truly ravishing in that gown.” He observed Gina, and she noticed he was holding a sprig of lily of the valley, twisting it this way and that as he pondered. “If I might suggest, long white gloves, a delicate diamond necklace with this gown. Perhaps earrings. Nothing more. And also . . .” He clicked his fingers. “Madame Vincent, send down to the boutique, will you please? I want the embroidered stole. Marie will know the one.”

Gina waited, turning this way and that, admiring herself in the full-length mirror at the end of the room. Claire said, “It is even better than I’d dreamed. How can that be?”

Impulsively, Gina turned to the couturier. “Monsieur, would you allow my friend to try—” But as the door to the fitting room opened once more, she broke off, her eyes widening and her lips parting in surprise.

Claire turned to see that it wasn’t Madame Vincent who had entered with the required stole draped carefully between her outstretched hands.

She was thinner and her hair was different—blond—what on earth had she done to her beautiful dark hair? But there was no mistaking the identity of this sales assistant.

It was Margot.